Devil Lover. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER ONE

      ONCE again Regan checked the address written on the piece of paper in her hand, sure that the building in front of her couldn't possibly be the place. The girl at the agency must have made a mistake, this quiet building set in the exclusive part of London couldn't possibly be the right place for her interview to be taking place. And yet the address appeared to be right.

      There was a man sitting at a desk just inside the thickly carpeted reception area, probably put there to keep out undesirables. The logical thing to do would be to see if she fitted into that category.

      The old man listened politely while she made her query. ‘I'm not sure,’ she said nervously, ‘but I think a Mr Western is expecting me for an interview this afternoon. Apartment 4.’

      ‘And your name?’

      ‘Miss Thomas,’ she supplied with a smile. At least he hadn't thrown her straight out. ‘Safe Employment sent me.’

      He smiled back at her, a man of obvious retirement age who probably found this job suited his advanced years. He wouldn't have too much to do, the building only consisted of four luxury apartments. Regan admired him for continuing to work when he no longer needed to; too many people had no choice but to remain at home with the high amount of unemployed, and usually gave up the will to live not long after. This man, although probably in his early seventies, gave the impression of a zest for life, a youthful twinkle in the faded blue eyes.

      ‘Mr Western is expecting you, Miss Thomas,’ he put her mind at rest about it being the right location. Thank God it was the right place, it was already five to three and the appointment was for three o'clock! ‘Would you like me to take you up,’ he offered, ‘or can you find your own way?’

      ‘I'll find my own way,’ she thanked him, thinking of the wear on his legs—as he was probably doing.

      She wasn't sure it was worth her attending the interview now that she had seen the wealthy background of her prospective employer; she felt sure he would require the very best qualifications from the person chosen to be the companion of his daughter. She would be in the nature of a governess really, but she didn't think a charge of nearly sixteen years of age would consider a girl of twenty old enough to fit that description. The girl probably considered herself old enough not to need a companion or governess. Not that Regan could blame her, but apparently the father was often away on business and didn't consider his elderly relatives capable of caring for his daughter. The mother was dead.

      But now that Regan had seen the quiet opulence that surrounded her charge she didn't think she stood a chance of being employed by the father. She had done a college course in child care but had no actual experience of working with children other than the necessary field work during the college course. Mr Western appeared to be wealthy enough to employ only the best for his daughter, and with no experience to back her up Regan could hardly be called that.

      The door to Apartment 4 was opened by a maid in a smart black and white uniform, the simple white-painted door in no way hinting at the elegance and wealth evident in every article in the huge room Regan was ushered into. Her feet sank into the thickly carpeted floor in a particularly attractive honey shade, the deep brown leather suite placed strategically about the room, the sofa large enough to seat at least five people. It was a beautiful room, beautifully furnished, the long coffee table a genuine antique. But it was a room that lacked something, lacked the vital something she believed necessary to make it a home. But probably Mr Western was away so often he didn't have the time to make it a home. Regan's heart went out to the daughter of the house, her emotions already becoming involved.

      She sat gingerly on the edge of one of the sumptuous armchairs while the maid disappeared into one of the other rooms, probably an office or study, to tell Mr Western of her arrival. She looked down nervously at the smart green suit and crisp white blouse she wore, seeing a certain schoolmarmishness about her clothing, but knowing they gave her a coolly assured appearance, for all of her youth. She had no doubt her usual attire would be frowned on, the tight denims and jumpers that emphasised every curve of her body.

      ‘Miss Thomas?’

      She stood up slowly, straightening her skirt as she did so. The male voice was pitched low and attractive, and a hasty glance at the newcomer showed him to be a tall man in his early thirties, short blond hair brushed back off his brow, blue eyes twinkling in friendly examination, the mouth curved into an attractive smile. Regan felt some of the tension leave her as she returned his smile.

      She accepted his proffered hand. ‘I'm Regan Thomas, yes,’ she acknowledged huskily.

      ‘Clive Western,’ he gave her hand a hearty shake. ‘Please, sit down. I've asked Margaret to provide us with some tea. I'm sure you could do with some,’ he smiled understandingly.

      ‘That